


The Galaxy's Best

by The_Pen_and_the_Sword



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Mass Effect 2, Mostly key moments during the game or off-screen character moments, One Word Prompts, Shep/Garrus but mostly lowkey, The crew of the Normandy is a mess, Vanguard Paragade Shep, and getting into their heads is fun, even Shep, guess who's got hella Imposter Syndrome, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Pen_and_the_Sword/pseuds/The_Pen_and_the_Sword
Summary: It's a motley crew that's been entrusted with the fate of the galaxy. One can only wonder how they'll manage to overcome their differences and personal baggage in order to pull it off. Commander Shepard certainly has no idea.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Kudos: 11





	1. Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts come from the blog @prompts-n-stuff-like-that on Tumblr. Check 'em out, they've got some good ones!

Long ago, in another life, Shepard had used to spend hours looking up at the stars.

It hadn’t been a frequent event. Back on Earth, there had been an ongoing war between her hometown’s near constant cloud cover and the ubiquitous smog of megatropolis pollution to be the dominant block between the sky and the millions of tiny lives crawling on the ground below. But sometimes, a heavy rain and a strong wind off the ocean was enough to clear away the gunk in the air. And little Riley, not yet possessed of the surname that would become so famous (or infamous, depending on who you asked), would climb to the nearest accessible rooftop and gaze upward for hours at those distant, winking lights. She’d been absolutely enthralled by space for a little while. Maybe it was just the wonder of a kid, prone like any other to fits of imagination as the years marched on since First Contact, and mankind began expanding into the great unknown. Maybe it had been escapism, from the poverty and grime and loneliness of life as a young orphan. Either way, Riley Not-Yet-Shepard had spent so long looking up on clear nights that she got neck cramps. She checked out kiddie books on space from any libraries within walking distance, even if she wasn’t a very good reader. Any news stories on events from Arcturus Station and beyond had her glued to the vid screens so hard you’d have to drag her away. Not like anyone would dare.

But Shepard hadn’t stargazed in a long time. Somewhere along the way, that childish wonder had gotten lost amongst all the other baggage.

It was common knowledge among orphans that things always got harder once you hit thirteen. You were outgrowing that kiddie cuteness that made adults tolerate you, feel sympathy for you. The closer you got to adulthood, the more acceptable it was to turn a blind eye to you. The rules changed. More and more she’d found herself having to get by on her own. Once her teenage years hit, there was no more room left for daydreaming.

Shepard had always been strong, something she had never been shy to proclaim. She’d always had a mean right hook and stubbornness to rival a bull, and the fact that in a tight spot she was capable of letting out a brief flash of dark energy that could knock three full-grown men on their asses had made her even better than strong; it made her unpredictable. And while she had never considered herself a smart person–a smart person was all about books and complex math and using long, stuffy words to explain concepts she had no hope or desire to understand–she had been called cunning before. Shrewd. Canny. She knew how to read situations and people, and knew how to adapt in order to survive. It was how she’d run with the Tenth Street Reds for so long; she knew how to make herself useful, what to do to get the right sort of people to notice you, and how to make the wrong sort ignore you. That was the key really. Life was dangerous, but if you could make yourself useful to the right people, you could not only survive, but maybe even thrive. It was that mentality, more than any dreams of adventure in space, that led her out of the Reds and into Systems Alliance recruiting lines once she turned eighteen.

As spiffy as they made it look in the ads, the Alliance hadn’t seemed all that different from a gang to Shepard. It had its hierarchy, with people to avoid and people to make good with, and always with the compulsion to prove your use, your worth above any of your peers, in order to climb the totem pole. She’d always been good at that, and she’d thrown herself into that competition wholeheartedly, with nary a minute to spare for stargazing: Adapt, excel, survive.

That mantra carried her through training and then her N ranks at an exceptional speed. Sure, her peers had begun to regard her tireless pursuit of advancement with resentment and increasingly cool attitudes, leaving her isolated more often than not, but what the hell did it matter in the end? That was just life. If you couldn’t cut it, you got left behind.

That mantra carried her through losing her whole unit on Akuze. Sure, the bloodcurdling death screams of her squadmates and the sight of their empty coffins being released into the void of space haunted her dreams even to this day, but what did she expect from joining up with the Alliance? There was always going to be risk, always going to be loss. Better to just accept it and keep moving.

That mantra carried her across the galaxy, bouncing through multiple stations, ships, and assignments over a decade, to the point it all became so routine, time started blending into itself. Sure, it might be lonely and the wonder of a young stargazer was all but forgotten, but she was alive, her belly was full, and looking at stars was pretty goddamn typical these days.

She’d kiss Donnel Udina on the mouth before she’d ever admit it, but finding out that the Reapers were indeed real, speaking with Sovereign, hearing Vigil recount the slow, agonizing extinction of the Protheans… it had nearly shaken her to the core. Still, she definitely-not-desperately told herself, what really changed? Something big was kicking down at something smaller, and they would have to fight to survive. People with more smarts and political savvy than her now knew that the Reapers existed; they would be the ones to prepare for the war to come. And in the meantime, she would get her nose back to that grindstone. She would fight, because that was what she was good at. She would adapt, excel, and survive.

Right?

Shepard hadn’t stargazed in a long time. The fight to survive had long since overrun the dreams of a scrawny street kid gazing up; too busy barreling ahead to an unknown stopping point because that was what had always worked for her. It was only now, as she looked up at the imploding wreckage of the _Normandy_ , saw the escape pods jettison away without her, and realized that that stopping point might just have snuck up on her, that the Commander really saw the stars again for the first time.

She was falling, caught in Alchera’s gravity well, but still she felt suspended. Flaming scrap streaked past her like angels plummeting to hell, but she paid them no mind. Even as her life support system failed and her body wrestled with it on instinct, her mind and gaze spiraled outward into the vast blackness, and the infinite weave of stars it held. On what felt like her last breath, Shepard wheezed out a laugh. For the first time in years, she realized just how beautiful the stars were... just as she was about to die among them.

_Fucking figures._


	2. Moon

Liara sat in utter stillness, snowflakes mingled with ash drifting down to melt on the shoulders of her hardsuit. Silent tears rolled down her face and left freezing tracks behind. 

“Ahem,” a double-timbred cough dragged her gaze up from the ground. Garrus stood in front of her, holding out a packet of military rations. “You should probably eat something, Liara.” His voice was flat but for a small hint of gentleness as he said her name. 

Wordlessly, not trusting her voice to not tremble if she spoke, Liara took the ration. She glanced around the small circle of people, trying to hold back another wave of tears. 

They were sheltered from the icy wind by a large boulder. A small fire crackled at the center of their gathering, thrown together with scattered flammables from the wreckage–there were no trees or vegetation anywhere nearby–in an attempt to ward off the snowy chill. Nearby, Liara could see the faint glows of other fires, other survivors from the _Normandy_ huddling together and trying to come to terms with the sudden disaster. The sudden loss.

Only six people crowded around this fire: the _Normandy_ ’s former pilot, and the surviving members of the late Commander Shepard’s ground team. 

The thought slammed into her like a charging krogan and a few more tears slipped free. Liara dashed them away furiously, feeling a sudden surge of shame. None of the others were crying.

Lieutenant Alenko sat on a small, snow-covered rock, bent forward and hands clasped together. His brows were drawn, and his shoulders drooped, but he showed no other sign of disturbance. After offering her the ration, Garrus had immediately gone back to sit as close to the fire as possible. It was difficult to read turian faces unless you spent a lot of time with them. He seemed utterly void of expression. Tali had been fooling with her omni-tool for ages, rarely lifting her head and not speaking a word to anyone. Wrex stood, leaning up against the boulder with arms crossed. His head was tilted toward the sky. Liara didn’t have the heart to look up to see if more fragments of their ship were still falling into orbit, leaving burning trails across the indigo darkness. 

And Joker… he sat next to Wrex against the boulder, dead gaze locked onto the struggling flames of their fire. His hands were clenching and unclenching. Liara looked on for awhile, but he never stopped. 

Liara found herself paradoxically envying and yet resenting her crewmates. On the one hand, they were probably used to danger and death. Even Tali, young as she was, had military training. They seemed to be handling this with much more grace than poor Liara T’Soni, archaeologist and practically civilian who’d been a blubbering mess since they’d broken out of the escape pod and received Joker’s black news. 

But on the other hand, how was it that they could be so still, so reactionless? Their commander, their _friend_ , was gone.

Commander Shepard had been a friend, too. Liara hadn’t known what to expect from serving under a human military officer when she first boarded the Normandy, but it certainly hadn’t been what she’d gotten. Shepard was… well, strange. Fascinating. Unpredictable. She’d been a mercurial person: always spoiling for a fight, but commanding her team with intelligence and authority; quick-tempered and certainly coarse in her language, but also quick to laugh and stop by for a chat; at times seeming callous in her determination to see the job done, but other times displaying a nobility of spirit that made it little wonder that this small team of hers had given her their loyalty so quickly. She’d been a fascinating knot of contradictions, such that Liara couldn’t help but be drawn to her, even if the Commander hadn’t shared the same feelings.

How, then, could her friends be so calm in the face of that loss? Shepard had led them through a battle that had saved the _galaxy_. After being swept up in such an adventure as that, only to suddenly have it all ripped away, Liara felt like a moon that had lost its planet to some cataclysmic disaster, and now she was adrift. What was she supposed to do now? Just go back to the way things were before?

“Just gotta keep moving, T’soni.”

Liara startled at Wrex’s deep rumble. Face flushing, she realized she had voiced her last thoughts aloud. 

She could feel everyone looking at her, so she kept her attention on Wrex. Of them all, he felt like a safe place to entrust the desperation and longing for answers she was feeling. Strange to say of a krogan, but it was true. 

The old battlemaster snorted, looking around at the group. “Easy to forget you all are as good as newborns. Take my advice, and don’t dwell on the past. Doesn’t do you any good, and Shepard wouldn’t have appreciated it. She was too much of a hardass.” He let out a short laugh. “And if you’re gonna dwell, ‘cause I know some of you will anyway, honor your dead by honoring their wishes going forward. Don’t know what that means to each of you. Hell, could just mean downing a bottle of somethin’ strong and getting on with life. All that matters is that you keep moving.” 

Liara swallowed back the lump in her throat. She found, looking around the group again, that every head had turned to their oldest member as he spoke, listening intently to every word. Garrus’s mandibles twitched and his eyes narrowed. Kaidan hunched even further in on himself. Liara thought she heard a sniffle from Tali. 

Maybe she wasn’t the only one that felt adrift after all. But Wrex was right. If she closed her eyes and thought about it, she could almost see the Commander: narrowed green eyes, sharp smirk, arms crossed. _“So I’m dead. What are you gonna do about it, T’soni?”_

Liara sighed, letting the tears flow freely again, no longer feeling ashamed. She was heartbroken for now, but she would find her way. They all would.


	3. Nebula

Garrus leaned heavily against the portside window. The radiant, amethyst haze of the Serpent Nebula drifted past in shimmering curtains.

This was not at all how he’d imagined his next return to the Citadel. He still wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t all a bad dream brought on by one too many concussive rounds to the head.

Well, dream or not, it didn’t take long for the Alliance cruiser _SSV Berlin_ to shunt its way into a docking bay. Too soon, in Garrus’s opinion.

He fetched his things from the temporary bunk he’d been assigned when the stranded survivors were picked up. He hadn’t brought much with him onto the _Normandy_ in the first place. Now he had even less, barely more than the armor on his back. Not much time to grab your luggage when the ship was going down in flames. Around him, he could see the rest of the disenfranchised _Normandy_ crew getting ready for departure. Even after a few days, everyone was still so quiet. As Garrus turned and headed for the airlock, he felt someone trot up next to him and start keeping pace. He glanced down at the top of Tali’s hood. She didn’t look at him or acknowledge him in any way, but he understood. He let her stay there.

There was a moment between stepping from the airlock and onto the dock where he hesitated inexplicably, as if he’d slammed into an invisible wall. It only took a moment to override the sudden aversion to disembarking and step off, but he couldn’t ignore that it had happened either.

“I know.” He could barely hear Tali’s modulated whisper over the usual holler and bustle of the docking bays as she stepped up to his side. “Getting off this ship… it feels like it makes it all real.”

Garrus gripped the strap of his pack even tighter.

For a moment, he and Tali just stood, letting the crews of both the _Normandy_ and the _Berlin_ flow around them. Tali turned to look out past the environmental barriers, to the long expanse of the Citadel arms and the brilliant purple light of the nebula. “I didn’t think it would end like this.” Her voice was rough and thick with tightly-bridled emotion.

Garrus let out a deep sigh, though it did nothing to relieve the hollowness he felt. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Now that she’d put words to the matter, it almost made Garrus angry to think about. What an abrupt, almost ignominious end to their adventures. After all they had accomplished together, after all the madness they’d survived, for this to be the outcome…

While Tali stared outward, Garrus felt his eyes drawn toward the elevator that would take them down into the Wards proper. Shame curled in his gut when he thought about the immediate future. His resignation from C-Sec and his departure hadn’t exactly been a subtle affair. Executor Pallin certainly hadn’t been pleased by one of his officers quitting so abruptly to chase after one of those “insults to the principles of law and order,” and there’d been no small amount of mockery from his former coworkers. _There goes Garrus, the hothead, running after his big dreams and high ideals by trying to ride the light trails of a human Spectre. Hard to believe he’s Castis Vakarian’s son. He’ll be back in a month, tops_.

Of course, the jabs hadn’t mattered then. His mind had been set, the Commander had accepted him onto her crew, and then they were off doing the kind of work that Garrus had always dreamed of doing. It was everything he’d ever wanted, and they had achieved more than he could have imagined. He had no reason to feel shame, yet here he was. The _Normandy_ was gone, the Commander was dead, and despite helping save the galaxy from Sovereign and his thralls, Garrus still felt like he’d been bounced right back to square one. Maybe even less than that.

His mandibles drew in tight to his jaw, and his head lowered. He hadn’t afforded himself much time to think about it before, but damn it all, he _missed_ Shepard. Not just as a Commander, though he could damn well use a little experienced guidance right now, but as a person too. Somewhere between all the firefights, the hours spent being jostled around by Shepard’s horrible driving, the close calls, the friendly competitions to see who could take out the most geth, the communal meals in the mess hall, the long chats in the cargo hold, and becoming the biggest damn heroes in the Milky Way, Garrus had found not just a leader he respected more than almost anyone else, but also one of the better friends he’d ever had. And now she was gone, snuffed out just like that, and they didn’t even know the culprits. The not-knowing honestly made it worse.

Still, painful as it was, he couldn’t let the injustice of it all stop him. Garrus would never tell him, but Wrex’s words back on Alchera had been helpful, and he’d known Shepard well enough by the end to believe she’d agree. Screw the grief, screw the embarrassment, and screw the bastards that had torn their team apart. There was still work to be done.

Standing up straighter and squaring his shoulders, he turned back to his quarian friend. “What’s next for you, Tali?”

“I’ll be heading back to the flotilla. Shepard helped me get what I needed to complete my pilgrimage. And the Reapers… I should let my people know.”

Garrus nodded.

“What about you?”

He breathed deeply. “I might see about reapplying for Spectre training. Shepard may be gone, but that doesn’t mean our work is over.” He held his head up higher. “There’s got to be people out there doing what needs to be done, and I don’t plan to sit back and kick up my heels.”

Tali nodded. She hesitated a moment, before holding out her hand. “Good luck, Garrus.” She let out a short laugh. “You may have been a thick-headed bosh’tet at the beginning, but now I can say I’m glad to have met you.”

“I’m glad to say the same.” The handshake was firm and sincere. “And good luck to you too.”

With that, they parted ways. Garrus could only hope it wouldn’t be for the last time.


	4. Hunter

_ Pending… _

_ Pending… _

_ Pending… _

_ Data received. _

_ Planet Alchera. Omega Nebula, Amada System. Atmospheric pressure 0.83. Standard surface temperature -22 C°. Surface gravity 0.85g. No cautionary measures required for atmospheric entry. No cautionary measures required for groundfall. Checks on sensitive external hardware elements every 1.5 hours to counteract potential temperature damage recommended.  _

Data thus compiled, they guided their small ship into planet entry. Estimated time to groundfall was twenty-four minutes and fifty-two seconds, barring complications. 

At twenty-six minutes and thirty-eight seconds, the ship touched down. Wind speed was an estimated 7kph faster than predicted. 

They stepped out. The ground beneath their mobile unit’s– _ pending– _ feet was not conducive to efficient travel time, but initial orbital scans of Alchera’s surface told them their goal was only 3.2 kilometers northwest from their landing zone. Neither time nor environmental hazards were active factors here. They moved forward.

Their mobile unit’s auditory processors could detect the sounds of loose and/or exposed hardware elements– _ pending _ –rattling in the large hole in the chassis that had yet to be patched, acted upon by the strong wind speed. Self-maintenance scans indicated there was no danger of losing hardware elements at this time. They continued to move forward.

They crested the top of a steep incline and finally received visual. 

_ Pending… _

_ Pending… _

_ Data received.  _

_ Systems Alliance, frigate class. Designation: SSV Normandy SR-1.  _

Comparisons between images pulled from extranet news sites and the shattered remains before them revealed they were in fact the same ship. They moved towards it. 

Orbital scans had shown no organic signatures. They had not anticipated any. They had been on their target’s trail for three galactic standard months, four days, and forty-five hours, but a critical complication had occurred. En route to the Amada System, they had received word that, according to both military and news reports, their mission objective was no longer in operation.

_ Pending… _

_ Dead.  _

Primary mission objective null. A significant loss of both data and potential. Mission failure.

Secondary mission objective remained: collection and compilation of information pertaining to R. Shepard, Lieutenant Commander, human female. Specific attention paid to the following subjects: encounters and interactions with the Heretics, encounters and interactions with the Old Machine Nazara, the Battle of the Citadel, and the defeat of the Old Machine Nazara. Addendum: the destruction of the  _ Normandy SR-1  _ and the potential agents of that event. Gather what was available, then close objective. 

They began to roam the wreckage. Both scans and visual evaluations indicated heavy beam barrage with molten metal, in all probability by a vessel several classes larger. No other apparent indicators as to the aggressors’ identities. 

They switched from broad search parameters to narrow details. An attempt was made to access what remained of the ship’s onboard systems, but projections estimated success to only be 7.6 percent likely given the initial sustained damage and time lapsed since the crash. Projections were accurate; what little could be accessed contained no new or relevant data. 

Their mobile platform knelt low to the ground and began to sift through snow and ice. According to all accessible sources, there had not been a proper salvage and recovery operation sent to this location beyond the first extraction of surviving  _ Normandy _ personnel. Predictable, given the complexity of organic politics between Citadel space and the Terminus Systems. In light of this information, it was not improbable that they might find Shepard-Commander’s remains buried in the snow. 

Their unit’s appendages twitched. Organics might read nothing from the gesture, but to a synthetic, it indicated significant pause. 

_ Pending… _

_ Pending… _

_ No data available.  _

Neither mission parameters nor logical reasoning said the recovery of remains would yield any useful data. The superior code that must have been contained within Shepard-Commander that had led to the defeat of Nazara and the heretics would be lost. Yet still, they continued to search. 

They had made groundfall at early light, and they searched until the light grew dim. Approximately fifty-eight hours had lapsed, with pauses only taken to check the integrity of more sensitive hardware elements in the low temperature. Their search radius ranged outward to a kilometer’s distance from the ship in all directions, with scanning active to detect any organic signatures beneath the surface. Search results beyond salvageable parts and resources included sixteen identifiable human bodies, as well as four bodies that had been significantly damaged by burns and impact. Comparisons made between whole remains and extranet images showed that none of the sixteen were their primary target. Of the unidentifiable remains, three were male, and the fourth did not match height and build as listed in Alliance personnel records.

Twenty-one crew members had been listed KIA in Alliance records. There were only twenty accounted for. 

Shepard-Commander was not here. 

Any possibility of the body being scattered farther from the crash by atmospheric or environmental factors was made invalid by the fact that all other deceased personnel had remained within the immediate proximity of the wreckage. Scans would have revealed organic tissue up to four meters below the surface. Finding remains from the  _ Normandy  _ below that depth was highly improbable. 

They cycled through all potential avenues until they settled on the one that was most logical: another party had been here before them and had seen fit to remove the commander’s body, but no others. A consensus was yet to be reached on what could have motivated such an action.

Their platform turned about, visually scanning the wreckage once more. The likelihood of obtaining any further useful data was low. A final sweep would be sufficient, then they would return to their craft. 

Pacing the perimeter, their platform circled the  _ Normandy  _ one last time _.  _ There was no auditory information to be received other than the rushing of the wind, and the rattling of parts in their platform’s damaged shell. 

Contact. Their platform’s foot struck against a hardshell polymer material, hidden under the snow. They stopped and knelt. From beneath the white surface, they pulled a damaged fragment of human armor: a shoulder pauldron and a partial– _ pending _ –chestplate. It was stamped with a designation in white and red. 

Their platform’s forward plates twitched.

_ Pending… _

_ N: fourteenth letter of Latin alphabet. Numeral 7. In combination, form designation for the highest rank of special operatives in the Systems Alliance military. Conclusion: this armor belonged to Shepard-Commander.  _

A clear sign that the commander had been here, but was no longer. Excluding that fact, this armor fragment was incapable of yielding useful data.

Their platform’s head tilted to the right, and then to the left, their optical lens still fixed on the retrieved scrap. 

_ Pending… _

They finished the sweep. No further discoveries. They began the trek back to their ship.

_ Pending… _

When they reached it, they closed the hatch and dug out their external repairs kit. There were other objectives that must be completed before they could return to the greater network beyond the Perseus Veil. Until such time, field repairs were the only recourse. 

_ Pending... _

Small sparks flew as they soldered the salvaged armor onto the damaged sections. Once complete, they tested the mobility and fit. All motor functions were operating at full range. The human armor stood out with great contrast in comparison to the dark gray polymer of this unit, with scuffed stripes of bright white and deep red.

_ No data available.  _

They returned to the pilot’s seat, beginning pre-flight checks. The lack of consensus concerning the use of the armor was irrelevant. At the current time, it was sufficient to know that the worst of the hole had been patched.


	5. Supernova

In a long career of military and special ops service, David Anderson had never felt more helpless on a battlefield than he did right now sitting around a table. Physical opposition could be beaten through or thought around. People, however, were infinitely more complicated, and infinitely more frustrating. Bad enough on the best of days, but now, with such dire consequences hanging on the line, with his words as his only weapon, Anderson felt as helpless as a green recruit cut from his line in antigrav training.

“You cannot just sweep this aside!” He jabbed his finger at the pile of mission reports laid out on the table before him. The table was too damn long, separating him from the other Council members to such a degree that it felt awkward, like the distance between them blunted everything he said. It was funny; with the loss of the old Council to Sovereign’s attack, Anderson was technically the longest standing member on the new Citadel Council, for all it had only been replaced a few months ago, but it still felt like he was being looked down on by their replacements. Some things changed, some things stayed the same.

“I don’t see that there’s anything to be swept aside,” Quentius, the new turian councilor, said. A less antagonistic, or to put it less delicately, pig-headed sort than his predecessor, but regardless seemed just as unable or unwilling to see the truth as Sparatus had been. “At least as far as we’ve seen, there has been no evidence to suggest that the ship wasn’t simply a highly advanced geth creation.”

“Except for everything that I’ve already shown you of Commander Shepard’s reports and what the crew of the _Normandy_ themselves have testified to,” Anderson replied, struggling not show the depth of his frustration. He wouldn’t help his case by losing his temper.

Irissa the asari councilor placed her folded hands on the table. She had the same open, conciliatory body language that was almost indicative of asari politicians, but there was an edge to her voice and eyes that Tevos had never had. “Councilor Anderson, we truly appreciate the effort that both Commander Shepard and humanity as whole contributed to uncovering and repelling this threat, but what has been provided is just not sufficient to support such an… extreme claim. All cultures have superstitious tales and beliefs, but if something occurs that seems supernatural, do you not always default to searching for more rational explanations first? Saren was a persuasive, ambitious individual. The geth are capable of incredible technological feats. It only makes sense that the two parties struck some kind of alliance. Sovereign was unique, but nothing more than an experimental war machine.”

The calm, conciliatory way she spoke, though no doubt it was meant to show the reason in her arguments, only highlighted flaws Anderson couldn’t believe they couldn’t see. He drew himself up, mustering all the persuasiveness and charisma he had. “With all due respect, councilors, what is most rational shouldn’t take precedence over what can be seen with our eyes and felt with our hands. Both you and your predecessors may have been eager to dismiss the Commander’s reports, and while I disagree, I could understand the skepticism of leaning on just one person’s word. But do you not trust your own people?” He jerked his chin at Quentius. “Garrus Vakarian has a sterling record as a C-Sec investigator, and is even now working toward Spectre status. Do you think he’s so easily fooled? And what about Liara T’soni?” He turned to Irissa. “An accomplished doctor and archaeologist even for her age. Is she just crazy? And as for my own, Staff Lieutenant Alenko is as level-headed and rational as they come. I don’t believe just a few pretty words from a terrorist like Saren and some smoke and mirrors would be enough to convince him of this threat without proper evidence.” He stood back and folded his arms. “Besides, these reports mention a VI on Ilos that gave them plenty of information in support of the Reapers’ existence. Are we not going to wait for our investigation teams to report back before we bury our heads in the sand? Listen to me, councilors. I know this may be hard to believe, but given what is at stake if it is true, doesn’t that warrant at least some serious consideration?”

The room was silent for a minute. For a moment, Anderson let himself hope. He wasn’t even asking for their belief, just their time and open minds. If they could find the Vigil VI that had been mentioned, it should be enough to cinch the deal, but until then he could at least keep them from dismissing it all out of hand.

The other councilors shared a look, one Anderson couldn’t interpret. Then the salarian councilor stood. “Your sincerity is unquestionable, Anderson,” she said, “And your passion understandable, given what you believe and your noted fondness and respect for the late Commander Shepard. However, we judge that this is not a claim that can be upheld at this time.”

“But–!”

“As for our investigation teams, reports are beginning to return from Ilos. Something approximating VI technology was found in the ruins there, but it was damaged to the point of uselessness. Unless something new is discovered, there is no hard evidence to be gained from that front.” There was something cold and absolutely unyielding in her voice that brooked no further argument. Anderson had a feeling that even if a Reaper crashed through the roof and confessed here and now, it still wouldn’t budge them. With the loss of the VI, it was like watching all chance of getting them to see the truth implode in front of him like a supernova.

“Unless we have any further matters to discuss, then this meeting is dismissed.”

A few hours later found Anderson sitting at a table in a small cafe. The news terminal nearby was droning a report about the progression of repairs since the geth attack. No mention of Sovereign or Reapers. These stories would have been all ready to go even before today’s council meeting. Maybe he’d been foolish to hope at all.

Anderson let out a sigh that he felt in his very bones, and held up a silent toast to Shepard, to Chief Williams, and to all the others that had lost their lives to bring them the truth. He only wished he could have been good enough to make people see it.


	6. Technology

Tali fiddled away at the drive core couplings. It was a cramped, hot space, and she had to lay on her back to fit, but for her it was so familiar as to be comforting. She’d already made all the necessary adjustments; this was just an engineer’s cool-down, a double check that she’d done everything right while taking a little time to herself before moving on to her next task. It was so routine at this point she could do it half-asleep, so it was a good time to let her mind rest and wander.

She’d been back with the flotilla almost a standard year now. She was finally getting used to the noise again. It had been a shock coming back the first time and having to adjust to the racket of the Migrant Fleet again. All these old, second-hand ships were always rumbling, wheezing, creaking, groaning, sputtering, and banging. Not to mention all the people. She’d gotten so used to the quietness on the  _ Normandy _ , to being able to hear herself hum while she worked. 

If she was honest, her transition back to normal life hadn’t been easy. Leaving on her pilgrimage had been a daunting task too, but young quarians were prepared to face it years in advance. No one ever really talked about the difficulties that came with returning: catching up on all the things missed, getting used to staying in one place again, the tight quarters, new responsibilities, assignment to a new ship. And that was  _ without  _ accounting for all the things she’d been through while serving on the  _ Normandy _ , or the tragedy that had sent her back to the fleet even earlier than she’d planned.

Tali caught herself and shook her head rapidly, forgetting for a moment where she was. The faceplate of her helmet clanged loudly off the machinery above her, and she winced at the harsh noise. “Shit,” she hissed, checking to make sure nothing had cracked. 

It was no use thinking like that. It felt selfish, even arrogant. She couldn’t know all the tragedies, hardships, and dangers that had plagued innumerable other quarians on their pilgrimages to count herself as some exceptional case. Besides, she didn’t like to think about it much. If she thought about it too much she would start to miss it: roaming the stars on a mission of great importance, talking shop with Pressly and Adams, scouring uncharted planets with Shepard and the team. Missing it like she did… it should feel wrong. The flotilla was her home, her people were her home. She shouldn’t be longing for another place and another time. 

With a soft growl, Tali slid out from her crawl space, wiping her greasy gloves on a cloth. She should just get to her next task. Technology was always a good distraction. Technology was a series of complex puzzles and questions that nevertheless always had answers; you just had to be skilled enough and persistent enough to find them. You never had to deal with complicated, conflicting feelings when it came to technology.

She’d made a note to take a look at one of the  _ Neema _ ’s port ion thrusters–the pilots swore they’d been getting some stuttering–so that was next on her agenda. 

Tali made her way through the halls of the ship, nodding to her crewmates as they passed each other. She didn’t know some of them as well as she probably should have by now; she’d kept herself more isolated than she normally would this past year. That was understandable though, she told herself. She was just adjusting still. It would pass. 

“Tali! Tali’Zorah!”

Tali stopped as she realized that she wasn’t just being given a friendly hail. She turned back as one of her crewmates, a young male about her age named Din’Kalah, came jogging up behind her. “What’s up?”

“Call for you in communications. Admiral Rael’Zorah.”

Tali’s eyes widened. Her father wasn’t one for social calls. Outside of fleet business and Tali’s occasional visit to the  _ Rayya _ , they hadn’t spoken much since her return. “Thanks, Din,” she said, immediately reversing course and heading back toward the ship’s communications hub.

She wasn’t sure what to expect from the call. As her father’s holographic image stuttered into existence before her, Tali did her best to keep her hands from fidgeting together. 

_ “Tali.”  _ Rael’Zorah’s voice came through fuzzy but still recognizable.  _ “How have you been?” _

“I’ve been doing well, father,” she replied, mostly truthfully. “The  _ Neema  _ is a good ship, and the crew have been welcoming.”

_ “I would expect nothing less. Han’Gerrel may no longer serve as its captain, but the  _ Neema  _ is still very much his ship. You are in good hands.” _

Tali nodded. In this instance, she was glad her father was the way he was. Other parents might inquire about new friends she’d made, what she’d been up to, how she was adjusting. Rael’Zorah wasn’t like that. He loved her, but showing it was a matter of actions, not words. 

_ “I called because I wanted to give you advance notice. In the coming year, the Admiralty Board is looking into several extended projects conducted in geth space. As perhaps the foremost expert on the geth, given your experiences on your pilgrimage, I have put your name forward as a candidate for leading some of these expeditions.” _

Tali straightened up, rigid as a lightning rod. “You did?”

_ “Yes. There is no guarantee yet, and it will be some time before these projects have been properly approved and coordinated, but your chances are good.”  _

Tali put her hands behind her, displaying a resolved face while letting her fingers fidget away where they couldn’t be seen. “What’s the intent behind these missions?”

_ “Details still need to be worked out, but the ultimate goal is to gather more information on the geth. The data you brought back from pilgrimage has given us a solid foundation, Tali. With a little more intel, a few more samples… it would make retaking the homeworld one day that much more possible.” _

Tali’s head lowered. She’d only just gotten back, and while she had her skills, she wasn’t a marine, and geth space was a well-known death trap. Yet all the same, Tali barely felt like she needed to consider it. It was more wrestling  _ against _ immediately jumping on the chance. Should she really be so eager to leave the fleet again?

_ It’s not forever _ , she told herself.  _ It’s still just...adjusting. I was wandering and fighting geth for a long time. I’ve warned my people about the Reapers, and that’s all I can do for now, whether they really believe it or not. I need something to  _ do _ , something I can actually solve, or I’ll just sit here trying not to think about what I’m missing. _

_ Technology. Technology I can solve. And the geth are just technology. _

Tali raised her head again. Her hands stopped fidgeting and fell back to her side. “I understand. I’ll do it.”


	7. Universe

“That’s like your fourth coffee, Jeff.”

Joker glared over the rim of his cup. “Adult man, Hilary. If I wanna absolutely bombard my nervous system with caffeine, I’d say that’s my god-given right.”

For a fourteen year old girl, Hilary sure had that ‘disappointed mother’ look down pat. The last time he’d been groundside, he didn’t remember her being this bossy. 

She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, and blew out a long, exasperated breath. The loose pleats of brown hair framing the sides of her face ruffled in the manufactured breeze. “Well, at least it’s not alcohol anymore. Your breath was stinking up the whole house.”

The corners of Joker’s mouth drew down into a slight frown. Oh, so this wasn’t just ‘Little sibling being annoying’ hours. It was ‘Little sibling is trying to check up on big sibling without being obvious about it’ time, which was even worse. He’d employed every tactic in the book to get her to stop: indifference, false cheer, snapping on occasion, avoidance, even chumminess to the point of being obnoxious. Nothing had worked. Hilary was either too stubborn or too smart to fall for it. More’s the pity. He was over ten years her senior; the last thing she needed to be doing was spending time and energy looking out for him. 

He let out a put-upon sigh and poked at his oatmeal, only half-finished. “Dad get called into work early?”

“Yeah. Told me to ask if you were planning to mope around the house again all day.”

“Don’t you have school or something?”

“It’s Saturday,  _ Jeffrey. _ ”

“We’re not even on Earth, it shouldn’t count.”

She slapped her hands down on the table and worked up a truly stellar pout. Joker chose to dismiss her for the moment, turning his head instead toward the sliding glass doors of their farmhouse. Tiptree looked the same as it always did: the large morning moon hung in the sky, the long grass in the fields swayed in the wind, and a few puffy clouds drifted across the sky. Quiet. Peaceful. Boring. 

He heard Hilary’s foot tapping. Winding herself up for a question probably. 

“Do you think you’ll ever go back into space?” she asked eventually. She sounded tentative, like she expected him to blow up at her, or he’d go running. You know, figuratively speaking. 

“Don’t have a whole lot of say in it. Got grounded, remember?”

“But  _ you  _ always claimed you were the best pilot in the Alliance. And it’s not like you got grounded because you screwed up; Dad told me it was because you were just talking shit like usual. Doesn’t sound like you’re  _ permanently _ stuck down here.”

His head spun toward her, a fierce scowl overtaking his face. “I was  _ not  _ just talking shit! Everything I was saying was completely true, but nobody cared to hear it, so they benched me to shut me up!”

Hilary threw up her hands. “Well, it’s not like you’ve ever really explained what actually happened to me, so what the hell am I supposed to think?!”

Joker opened up his mouth to rebut, but then closed it again. He turned back to the window. “They were telling lies about a friend of mine,” he ground out. “I refused to tow the line and let them smear her name, and brass got pissed about it.”

“Oh.” Hilary went quiet for a bit, before continuing. Her tone sounded very cautious. “That sucks, but… is it worth being stuck here? You love flying more than anything.” Even without looking at her, Joker could hear the awe and hint of jealousy in her voice. As soon as she was old enough, Joker had little doubt she’d be following in his footsteps. 

Joker pinched the bridge of his nose. Part of him almost agreed with Hilary. He was  _ miserable  _ groundside. No matter his dad’s gentle persuasions to look into other work, about how it would take his mind off things, that there were great disability services in place to help him find something that would fit him, Joker knew that he was as likely to settle down as Wrex was to take up knitting. Yet the idea of bowing to the party line was not only a huge betrayal of his dead commander, but also actively stupid. He  _ knew  _ the Reapers were real; hell, he’d made the killing shot on Sovereign himself! Choosing to deny it even just publically was moronic. Not to mention he’d be the biggest scumbag in the galaxy if he sold out Shepard. She’d been one of the first people to truly believe and trust in his skills as a pilot, despite knowing about his condition. The only reason he was alive right now was because of her.

_ And she was gone because of him. _

When he spoke again, his voice was much more raw than he would like. “I want to fly again more than anything... but I can’t do it without doing what I know is wrong.”

Silence fell between them for a good while. Hilary shuffled awkwardly in her seat, before finally standing. 

“Do you… wanna go see a vid? There’s a new theater open in town.”

This finally got a smile out of Joker. His sister really was a good kid. “Thanks, Hil, but nah. I could just use a little time to myself today.”

“...Okay then.”

She did leave him alone after that. Joker just sat at the small kitchen table for who-knew-how-long, staring out at the sky, longing for the vast universe outside of this tiny colony and the limits of his messed-up body that he used to have all the freedom he could want to explore, and yet knowing he couldn’t have it. 

At some point he heard Hilary say something, and then the door opened and shut. Probably off to hang out with friends. Good for her. Better than hanging around her gloomy, twenty-nine-year-old brother.

His ass was finally starting to hurt, and he was considering moving his moping from the table to the living room couch, when he heard a knock at the door.

“Hilary, you’ve got a damn key.”

No response, only another knock.

Rolling his eyes, Joker hauled himself upright and limped for the entryway. He was  _ not  _ in the mood for solicitors right now.

He opened the door to a woman he didn’t know, dressed plainly but professionally and holding a thick file in her hands.

“Whatever it is, we’re not interested,” he said.

The woman gave a small smile that instantly set off alerts in Joker’s head. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not here to sell you something, former Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau. At least, nothing I know you won’t be interested in.” She held out the file. “I’m here on behalf of my project lead, Miranda Lawson. She has an employment opportunity she would like to discuss with you.”


	8. Scientist

Miranda tapped her finger on the holographic interface, scrolling through the reams of information almost mindlessly. She’d read it all several times over in the year plus change she’d been slaving away at the Lazarus Project. It was more a tick of the subconscious, searching for anything that could help her with the thoughts she was struggling with. 

Just a few hallways away, the basic building blocks of a body were laid out on an operating table, sustained by tubes and machines. That was soon to change, though. The hardest work was almost finished: fusing shattered bones together, rejuvenating dead cells, getting the organs restarted, installing all necessary cybernetic modifications and supplements to not only keep the body functioning, but improve it even beyond what it had been. By Miranda’s estimates, it should be clear sailing from here, with mostly just the skin grafts and cosmetic reconstruction remaining. 

Before that could happen, though, she had a choice to make. 

She pulled up an image on the screen. She’d seen the picture before, but up to this point she’d been much more interested in news and mission reports, psych evals, medical records, and interviews. This time, she leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and really  _ studied  _ the face on her screen. 

It wasn’t hard to imagine that Commander Shepard, hero of the Battle of the Citadel, had grown up on the streets of Earth’s megacities. She carried the look with her even into her military career: a bit gaunt around the cheeks, with a sharp, hawkish nose and a hard, square jawline that seemed to be set in obstinance even in a picture meant for military records. Her short hair was as black as crow feathers, and just as scrappy in Miranda’s opinion. There were nicks and marks all over her pale skin, including a notable scar that cut a horizontal cross under her right eye. It looked like someone had made it deliberately. And as for those eyes–forest green and deep-set and partially shadowed–they seemed to glare out of the screen, daring Miranda to voice her judgments out loud. 

Yes, from all Miranda had read, the face fit the character. On record as a powerful Vanguard-class biotic and the sole survivor of the Akuze incident, Shepard was noted to be stubborn, action-oriented, and an absolute terror on the battlefield. Of course, if she were  _ only _ a hot-headed blunt instrument, Cerberus would have left her to rot. Miranda had done her research. By all accounts, the commander also possessed not a small amount of charisma, of that rebellious kind that could get people riled up and raring for action with just a bit of casual camaraderie and a few thrilling speeches with some well-placed “fucks” thrown in for emphasis. And she was smarter than a first impression might lead one to believe. No one advanced in rank as quickly as she had without knowing who to suck up to and when. 

She was exactly the kind of personality Cerberus needed for the mission ahead, and also the reason Miranda was caught between two minds right now.

The Illusive Man had been clear:  _ no tampering.  _ He wanted Shepard as she had been, but was that really wise? A person like that wasn’t going to be trammeled easily, especially not with Shepard and Cerberus’s mutual history. All it took was the insertion of a tiny control chip in the brain, before exterior reconstruction began, to ensure that their two-year, four-billion-credit investment didn’t go rogue on them at the first opportunity. 

Miranda went back to tapping her fingernails on the desktop. She was the project lead, and though the Illusive Man hadn’t liked the idea when she suggested it, she still had the freedom to make executive decisions. He didn’t need to know about it. If everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t even need it. It would just be there, a failsafe if things went south. 

She stopped her tapping and glanced at the screen again, the eyes in the picture still glaring at her. 

Miranda could only imagine how much a person like that would despise being controlled. She knew  _ she  _ would hate it if it was done to her. 

She scrubbed a hand across her face, feeling a pit of nausea in her stomach. Hell, it sounded like something her father  _ would  _ do, if he’d known in advance the extent of her own rebellious intentions. No measures were too extreme to get the end result he wanted.

She shoved away from her desk and stood up. She began to pace the room, all while those eyes on the screen followed her back and forth. 

Miranda didn’t like unknowns. She didn’t like not being in control. She’d had it withheld from her for too long to not want a tight grip on every situation she found herself in as often as she could get it. Not to mention, she was a scientist in this project as much as a Cerberus operative. If you wanted an experiment to be a success, you had to make sure to weed out factors that could affect the results. 

_ “But _ ,” a quieter, gentler voice at the back of her mind that she mostly kept shut away whispered,  _ “This isn’t just an experiment; it’s a person. Forget that fact, and you’re no better than  _ him _ , are you?” _

Her hands landed on her hips and she sucked in a deep breath. She still didn’t feel comfortable with it. 

However, she was willing to flip her perspective on this. Scientists should be careful to control for variables, but it was equally important to think outside of the box and take risks on occasion to make breakthroughs. 

She closed out the files. The Lazarus Project would proceed as before. 


	9. Enemy

Cerberus Officer Wilson did his best not to fidget with nerves. There were cameras in this room; no one needed to see him looking shifty before he was ready.

It was hard not to. Something about Shepard being  _ right there _ , unconscious or not, while thoughts of how he was going to kill her off whirled around his head made him feel jittery. 

He glanced over his shoulder. There was definitely something a little eerie about being in here now. For two, underpaid, miserable years, he’d slaved under Miranda to get a braindead slab of meat functional again. Most of the time it had felt like a damn waste, and a quiet resentment toward Lawson and Cerberus in general had steadily festered. Now there was an actual woman on that table: hair, skin, clothes, the whole shebang. Just as still and silent as always, with webs of glowing orange scars still netted across the new-grown skin, but undeniably alive. Even being one of the lead medical officers on this project, it felt almost unnatural what they’d managed to achieve, this impossible Frankenstein feat of science and medicine. 

Wilson swallowed. He was running out of time. She could wake up any day now. Hell, she already had for a few seconds during his first attempt on her life. He’d lowered the dosage on her sedative drip, hoping the shock of pain and sensation would kill her quickly and cleanly, but not only had that bitch Miranda come in to helicopter over her precious project like the control freak she was, Shepard had actually started coming conscious. That had spooked the shit out of him; even with the tampered dosage, anybody normal should have stayed out cold. The logical thing was to blame it on all the cybernetics they’d wired into her, but Wilson couldn’t help feeling like she’d  _ known _ , and between that and what had felt like a uniquely cold stare from Miranda, it had felt like his subterfuge was only hanging on by a thread. 

He’d backed off for a while, too unnerved by the close call to make another attempt, but he couldn’t delay much longer. The Shadow Broker wanted her dead, and was offering a substantial reward to do it. If she managed to wake up, there was no way Wilson would be able to manage it. He also didn’t fancy the idea of whatever the Shadow Broker might do to agents that failed to get their jobs done.

It wouldn’t be long now. Miranda had begun purposely weaning the sedatives, and Wilson could feel a tension beginning to spread through the station staff, like a collectively held breath. Two years of work were about to pay off. 

Feeling sweat beading at his brow, he looked back at Shepard again. She was right there, five feet away from a tray of sharp surgical instruments. Wilson was a decent tech. It wouldn’t be too hard to send the cameras in here on the fritz for a few minutes. All it would take was a quick stab to the chest, then he’d book it for the hangar bay, commandeer one of the shuttles, and haul ass to some remote port and live like a king for the rest of his life. He imagined the satisfaction of watching Miranda’s pet project spilling her fresh-out-of-the-freezer blood all over the sterile floor.

The thought only lasted for half a second before the million ways that could go badly for him overpowered it. Someone might get suspicious about the cameras glitching. Someone could walk in while he was committing the deed. Miranda might suspect something from his last attempt and be watching him more closely. He might get caught before he could make his escape. The moment he raised a knife could be the moment Shepard opened her eyes again.

Wilson cringed to himself. No, no! He couldn't gamble like that. Might be expedient, but not worth the risk. The whole point was to survive to enjoy the spoils of putting his neck on the line. No, he had to come up with something that would take out his target without immediately implicating him. 

Then the idea occurred. The security mechs! There were hundreds of them on this station and he was fairly certain he could get them working for his purposes. Wouldn’t exactly be able to avoid gunning down everyone in the station but hey, working with Cerberus came with its risks, didn’t it? 

He closed out his work station and left the room, trying to keep his pace calm and measured. It was now or probably never. 

* * *

Wilson grasped desperately at his leg, trying to stem the blood flow. Nothing vital hit, but it wasn’t good either. 

He’d almost gotten away with it. The mechs had been an easy hack if you had the right kind of access. It was the interruption that had caused the trouble. Two of his fellow Cerberus techs lay shot dead on the ground. Pity for them for having walked in at the wrong moment. At least it would be easy to pass off on the mechs. The problem was getting out of this building now that he was gimped and the hallways were swarming with killer robots. One thing was for damn sure, he wasn’t managing it alone.

He activated his omni-tool and opened a comm channel. “Check. Check! Anyone on this frequency? Hello?!” There had to be  _ somebody _ . 

_ “Wilson? This is Jacob.” _

Wilson let his head fall back in relief. Jacob was a damn tough son of a bitch. Just the person he needed to help get his ass off this station.

_ “I’ve got Commander Shepard with me. We just took out a wave of mechs over in D Wing.” _

Wilson’s relief burst like a balloon being poked by a needle. She was alive? How?!

He stuttered for a moment, but managed to cover the shock and dismay in his voice and give his location, making sure to fake panic at an impending mech attack to explain the bodies in the room with him. As Jacob signed out, Wilson slumped back in despair. All hopes of a massive bounty to usher him into a life of luxury drained out of him faster than the blood from his leg wound. 

All he could hope for now was to get off this station with his life and figure things out from there.

He heard footsteps beyond the door. It whirred open, and suddenly Wilson found himself staring into a pair of dark green eyes. Might have been a trick of the light in here, but he could swear he saw a faint red glow burning in that gaze.

He gulped. 


	10. Infinity

The last thing Shepard remembered was staring up into the infinity of space, watching the stars go dark. Poetic, if a little terrifying, but in her line of work you couldn’t be picky about that kind of thing. 

After that, she had no notion of what was to come next. Never nailed down any particular beliefs about death and the afterlife; she figured it would become relevant once she was actually dead. Well, it had become relevant, but not at all what she would have guessed.

She remembered gasping for air and struggling fruitlessly to fix her life support. She remembered heat and pain as she plunged into the planet’s atmosphere, but fortunately for her, asphyxiation got to her before she could be burned alive on reentry instead. And she remembered going through the infamous “life flashing before the eyes” phase as her consciousness spiraled away like water down a drain. Then darkness.

Shepard would have guessed that would have been it, if she’d been given the opportunity. Done. Dead. Kaput. Blackness forever.

That was not the case, or else the afterlife was very strange.

The next thing she knew, she was being violently shaken and a blaring alarm was blasting her into consciousness. She was cold. Everything hurt. The left side of her face burned. Someone was shouting at her.

Not any heaven, that was for sure. Jury was still out on Hell. 

_ “Shepard, do you hear me? Get out of that bed now, this facility is under attack.” _

Attack. The world was shaking. An explosion in the distance. Danger. Shepard forced her eyes open.

They burned like she’d taken a molten poker to them, and as she tried to lift her head, her left cheek scorched her even harder. She gasped and her hand flew to her face. It felt strange.

_ “Shepard, your scars aren’t healed, but I need you to get moving. This facility is under attack.” _

Bonelessly, she slid off the hard bed she’d been laying on–Hospital? Fuck, she hated hospitals. Hell _would_ be a hospital–and collapsed to the floor. She clenched her teeth to hold back a yelp. Forget the morning after shore leave, this was by far the worst she’d ever felt waking up, and she’d had some real winners over the years. Felt like the room was built on a merry-go-round, and her body felt all wrong in a way Shepard couldn’t put her finger on. Heavier but not? Felt like it moved too quickly in response to her thoughts? There were splinters under her skin with no way to reach them. It stood out as a complete contrast to the last memories she could recall. When she was spaced, she felt weightless, slow, and even rushing toward her death, free in the infinite for just a little while. Now she felt small, weighted, and utterly boxed-in.

The voice was shouting at her again, telling her where to find a gun. Gun. A gun was good.

She picked herself up with great effort, the room pitching back and forth as she did, and staggered over to the weapons locker in the corner of the room. By the time she reached it, she was already feeling much steadier, but in a way Shepard felt was unnatural. After all the years of intense training and tuning, she knew her body and all of its quirks, strengths, and weaknesses, and nothing felt right, like she was piloting a highly efficient mech instead of actually walking.

She leaned up against the weapons locker, breathing in deep through her nose. She wanted to tell the voice yelling at her to shut the fuck up for a quick second so she could get her bearings, but who knew if they would be able to hear her. So instead, she closed her eyes, just trying to tune everything out for a moment.

Shepard didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know the situation, or how long she’d been in it. She didn’t know where her crew was, or how many were even alive. She didn’t feel like herself. She didn’t understand.

But she was alive, that much she was sure of now. The deep soreness in her limbs, the thundering pace of her heart as it reacted to an emergency situation, and the burn in her skin when she pulled it in certain places was too real. She was alive, against all odds. Everything else would have to take a back seat for now. She didn’t intend to stand around stunned and wait for death to catch her unawares this time.

Adapt, excel, survive.

She yanked the door of the locker open. Even in pain and still a little disoriented, years of practice had her fitted and kitted in record time. As soon as her fingers wrapped around the handle of a pistol again, Shepard could feel her old strength and surety returning. Standing up straight, she looked to her empty hand and concentrated. A surge of dark energy pulsed in her hand and coiled up her arm. Oh yeah. Whatever bullshit was going on, she would handle it. Then she would get her answers. 

She tore out of the room at a sprint. The unfamiliar sensations were drowned out by adrenaline and survival instinct. Up ahead, she saw what looked like a security mech turning a corner, pistol brandished.

“Okay then,” she muttered to herself. She almost let out a grim smile. She crouched, feeling energy gather in a corona around her. This was an advanced technique, one she’d only just started practicing before everything had gone to hell, but she could use a bit of thrill to really wake her up. With a yell, she leapt forward in a surge of purple energy, rocketing across the room and slamming shoulder first into the mech. It was knocked flying, before it smashed into the opposite wall and shattered into pieces. That did make her grin.

By the time she’d torn her way through several waves of mechs and found the first living person in the place, Shepard felt almost like herself again. She slid in behind the barricade next to the man. 

His brown eyes widened. “Shepard? What the hell?”

“Alive and kicking. Now, where the hell am I and what the hell is going on?”


End file.
